awakeSummary: It's not easy staying a retired superhero -- but how does a perfectly normal girl from Clayton, California wind up joining and leaving The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, by the age of eighteen? It's time for a secret origin. With teddy bears.
***
The drive from Red Bluff to Eureka took several hours, largely because traffic had slowed to an inexplicable crawl for almost fifty miles. Velma sat behind the wheel and fumed, trying to distract herself by coming up with more and more unlikely causes for the delay. She'd just reached 'alien cows have landed and are demanding reparations for the slaughter of their colonists' when things finally started moving again. She hit the gas, all thoughts of colonist cattle forgotten in her urge to find a truck stop where she could get food, coffee, and a much-needed nap before continuing on towards Oregon.
The Good Time Gas-n-Go truck stop appeared on the side of the highway in all its tacky neon glory like a gift from God when she was still about fifteen miles outside the Eureka city limits. Truck stops always had the biggest portions at the smallest prices, largely due to supply and demand; truckers demanded a hell of a lot of food, and were willing to supply a minimal amount of cash for the privilege. At the same time, truckers generally didn't demand high-quality or healthy meals, as long as the cooking was good and there was plenty of ketchup available. Velma pulled into one of the few open parking spaces and made her way inside, visions of giant cheeseburgers dancing in her head.
It really wasn't a surprise -- a disappointment, maybe, but not a surprise -- to see that the television behind the bar was turned to the results show for the latest Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division 'talent search.' This was the official reveal, giving the viewing public their first official look at the newest members of the team. Velma knew that the recorded announcements that accompanied their unveiling would be so much vapid bullshit, all of it designed to make the people watching at home overlook the fact that they only needed new team members because they'd managed to break the old ones. Rookie members of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division only had about a fifty-two percent survival rate.
Such was the life of the professional superhero. There was a reason that Velma had decided to get out of it. Several reasons, actually, only eight of which were related to the fact that she'd buried six people she actually sort of liked by the time she turned sixteen.
At least the sound on the television was turned off, and she wouldn't have to listen to that god-awful theme song.
Velma ordered a stack of pancakes, a plate of country ham, coffee, and an overnight stay in the diner's attached no-tell motel. Portland could wait long enough for her to get a nap. If it couldn't, Portland could damn well take delivery of her corpse. She was on the road, she was out of Red Bluff, out of everywhere she'd ever been, and she was leaving everything -- every scrap of spandex, every stupid theme song -- behind her. Everything.
The pancakes were delicious.
*
The age of power manifestation varies from hero to hero, depending on their type of origin. A magical hero like The Princess could manifest at just about any time, depending on when they run afoul of whatever magical doo-dah decides it needs them to be its new best buddy. A scientific hero generally manifests after a crippling injury, or after they get their hands on some hypertech from the sixteenth dimension. Mutants manifest whenever they damn well feel like it. After subverting the human genome to your own surreal ends, slinging fireballs just sort of happens when it happens.
As a natural mutant who'd been exposed to still-unknown radiation and an exotic pathogen at the same time, Velma was officially classed as an 'enhanced mutant,' that horrible middle step between 'mutant' and 'enhanced human.' With a freaky label and an effectively useless power, she'd never really qualified for any of the legal help that the mutant and enhanced human political lobbies controlled. They just kept bouncing her between them like a funky-looking rubber ball stuffed into a pink and brown spandex super-suit.
Velma's powers actually manifested for the first time at seven-sixteen in the morning on a Saturday when her father was in jail on yet another minor assault charge, and her mother was sleeping off the drinking binge to end all drinking binges. Velma was six, and not yet allowed to use the kitchen on her own, no matter how hungry she happened to be. The Power Rangers were on TV, fighting a bad guy who could talk to lizards and make them attack people for him, which was wicked cool. After that would come the latest episode of The Super Patriots, where cartoons made from really real superheroes fought bad guys way worse than evil lizards. It was all totally enthralling, and Velma didn't want to miss a second.
In retrospect, it probably isn't all that surprising that she didn't notice when a stuffed bear brought her a bowl of cereal and some hot toast. She was, after all, six, and at six, everything seems entirely normal, even breakfast-by-bear. Velma and her teddy bear watched cartoons until Mommy woke up hungover and mean, and smacked Velma around for going in the kitchen without permission. That was the only time Velma tried to tell her mother she had superpowers -- at least until the ill-fated field trip that would eventually tell the world. She couldn't sit down for a week after the spanking she got for that one.
Once a superhuman has manifested their powers, they are required to register with the government, and, should they wish to practice their powers outside the home, to obtain a hero license for the state in which they reside. Some states do require and enforce mandatory 'civic service' time in exchange for licensing; in short, if you want to live in one of those states and be a licensed superhero, you'd better be willing to do your heroic duty. This doesn't apply to child heroes, obviously enough. While superhumans under the age of eighteen are not subject to child labor laws in the exercise of their powers, they can't be forced into heroic service.
In theory, anyway. The reality of the matter is much simpler, if substantially more cold. Once a superhero team has its claws into someone, their age doesn't really matter. There are a thousand small, practically invisible ways to keep someone quiet, loyal, signing merchandising contracts, and generally standing up in front of the world with a smile. Most kid superheroes made kid stars look well-adjusted, sane, and absolutely well-socialized.
The glamorous world of the professional hero. There's nothing like it. And, as Velma had been declaring since she turned thirteen, "Thank God for that."
*
The rooms at the Good Time Gas-n-Go's no-tell motel were small, dingy, spotlessly clean, and, most importantly of all, cheap. Finances were tight, and just getting tighter every day that Velma stayed on the road. She tossed her backpack into the room's one small chair and tossed herself across the bed, grabbing the TV remote off the nightstand in a gesture born purely of habit.
The credits were just starting to roll on the annual cattle-call for The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. That meant a photo opportunity for the new kids, where they could stand alongside the old guard trying to look cute, and clever, and cunning, and marketable. Trying to look like they weren't scared out of their minds, like they were going to beat the odds and be in the business forever. They'd probably be in it for the rest of their lives; that much was certain. Those lives just weren't likely to last as long as they'd wanted them to.
The Super Patriots, West Coast Division looked good positioned next to their newest junior heroes. Sparkle Bright in her rainbow costume, tiny rainbows decorating her hair with glints of brilliant light. Uncertainty, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking like he was afraid he'd left the iron on. Imagineer, tinkering with something she'd pulled out of her labcoat, while Mechamation flirted with one of the cameras. Not one of the cameramen; one of the cameras. Jack O'Lope, Spirit of the American West, chin jutting and chest puffed out, looking noble and heroic and only a little silly in his bright red cowboy hat.
And Action Dude. Aaron. In that iconic orange and blue costume that sold a million knock-offs every Halloween, with that little domino mask that Marketing said made his eyes pop -- like they needed help -- and that little wave in his surfer-boy blond hair. The American Dream in brightly-colored spandex. (No, wait; the American Dream was another hero. This was Action Dude. This was Aaron.) He was standing shoulder to shoulder with Sparkle Bright, their shoulders almost touching. Just enough to make the public wonder if everyone's favorite on-again, off-again hero couple was on or off this week. Action Dude. Most popular hero on the West Coast.
"'member when we were on that stage, Aaron?" Velma murmured sleepily, and closed her eyes while the theme song played over the closing credits.
*
Velma Martinez, age twelve, fledgling superheroine facing her very first battle against evil: the Marketing Department of The Super Patriots, Inc. They'd been called in by the local authorities after the class field trip to the museum, the one where -- Velma's cheeks burned again just thinking about it -- the one where she'd finally been so tired, and so upset that she'd lost control of her powers completely, bringing the entire Natural History wing back to life. The dinosaurs had been so pretty when they started to jump around. But that didn't matter now, because now she was In Big Trouble. The Biggest Trouble ever, maybe.
Both her parents had answered the corporate summons, and they were sitting there wearing their very best clothes (Daddy hadn't worn that suit since Grandpapa's funeral), with their hands folded just so, listening to every word the man from Marketing said.
"A power like Velma's is, well, it's a large blessing, Mr. and Ms. Martinez, and it's also a large burden, especially for a family that's never had to deal with the challenges of raising a superpowered child," said the man from Marketing, his expression composed into one of utter sincerity. Velma hated him. Her parents, on the other hand, were nodding solemnly, looking for all the world like they believed Velma had acquired her powers the same day she lost control of them. They knew better. But they were still listening to him. "Now, we here at The Super Patriots believe in guiding young heroes -- nurturing them to be the very best that they can be, and helping them learn the control and compassion that will be so important to them in their heroic lives."
"You can't make me be a hero," Velma said, speaking up for the first time since the meeting started. All three of the adults turned to look at her, their expressions betraying the fact that they'd almost forgotten she was there. "That's illegal."
"You hush," hissed her mother, with surprising rancor. Her eyes were glittering bright with anger and excitement. Looking at those eyes, Velma felt her stomach sink as understanding that was far too old for her twelve years flooded through her. She was for sale. That was why they were here. She had superpowers -- not because she'd done anything to seek out or earn them -- and that meant she wasn't really a little girl anymore. She was something else, some pretty little toy that could be bought and sold by anyone who was willing to meet the price. "You just hush your mouth."
"Sorry, Momma," Velma said, sinking back in her seat. "I just--"
"I don't care what you 'just,'" said her father, sharply. "Quiet now."
Wisely, Velma was quiet. She didn't say another word. Not as the cost for her legal guardianship was agreed upon, not as they argued out a payment schedule, not as the lawyers came in with the papers that would transfer custody from her parents to the corporation. Not as her parents got up and left the room, effectively washing their hands of her. Not even when the woman with the plastic smile to match her plastic breasts stepped into the room, murmuring to her like she was a much younger child, and offered to take her to her new 'special room.'
Velma wasn't sure she'd ever say another thing ever again.
*
The home base of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, was split into three distinct sections. There was the public-facing area, where tour groups could come to ooh and aah at all the cute kiddie superheroes as they trained in their brightly-colored, theme park-esque 'workout zones'; there were the team quarters, where the various official, axillary, and training members of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, were housed; and then there were the bunkers.
"It'll be just like going to camp with your very best friends!" gushed the woman from Marketing, during Velma's orientation. "You've always wanted to go to camp, haven't you?"
"No," said Velma.
If she'd been expecting her lack of enthusiasm to slow down the woman from Marketing, she was sorely mistaken. Her orientation continued to barrel full-speed ahead, rushing her through all the duties she'd be expected to perform as the newest member of The Junior Super Patriots family. Most of them involved submitting to endless tests of her powers, at least for the first few months.
"And if you're very good, and you do very well on your tests, you may get the chance to try out for the team! Won't that be wonderful?"
"No," said Velma again, but her protests fell on deaf ears. The wheels of her future were already turning all around her, and there was nothing that she could do to stop them. They were going to have their way with her, whether she liked it or not. So she let herself be shown into a tiny white room that wouldn't have been out of place in a hospital, them gushing promises of a bright tomorrow, her sullen and silent. She just stood there after they'd gone, head bowed, wishing she knew whether or not they were watching her.
Until she knew, she didn't dare break down and cry.
*
Her solitude didn't last for long. Velma hadn't been in her cell -- sorry, 'guest quarters' -- more than a day when the door opened again, allowing, not a company scientist, but a girl about her own age to step inside. The newcomer was willowy and blonde, with huge blue eyes that seemed to make up the bulk of her face. She looked, in short, nothing at all like Velma, except in the tears that were still running down her cheeks.
Catching sight of the small, dark bundle of sullen that was Velma, the new girl wiped her nose with the back of her hand, sniffled, and said, "They said this was going to be my room."
Velma didn't respond.
"Are you my new roommate?"
Velma didn't respond.
"My name's Yelena. What's yours?"
Velma didn't respond.
Yelena sighed, walking over to the room's other bed and putting her tiny suitcase down next to the pillow. "I guess your parents sold you, too, huh?" She kept her head bent as she opened the suitcase, beginning to remove a few shabby articles of clothing. "They've known I had powers for years. Wasn't ever a problem until somebody said they'd give them money for me."
"What do you do?" asked Velma, actually focusing on her roommate for the first time.
Yelena looked back, offering a small, anxious smile before waving one hand through the air. A trail of rainbow glitter followed the gesture, shimmering in place for just a moment before dissolving.
"Cool," said Velma, and smiled.
*
Six months had passed since her acquisition. Velma squirmed, still uncomfortable in her new 'uniform,' even more uncomfortable in the bright lights of the studio. They'd only received their trial costumes that morning, the supposedly home-sewn and kid-designed attire that would be the first thing the nation ever saw of them. She wasn't sure what sort of girl would voluntarily accessorize a brown leotard with Halloween-costume rabbit ears and a puffy tail, but that was apparently the sort of girl she was supposed to be. Yelena was even worse off. They'd shoved her into a pair of rainbow-striped tights and a white sequined leotard that made her look like she couldn't decide whether she wanted to be a figure skater or a circus clown.
The boys in their 'class' were in a little better condition, largely because they were supposed to look 'tough' and 'manly.' Privately, Velma wasn't sure that David Mickelstein could look tough or manly if his life depended on it. Mostly, he just looked miserable. She supposed she'd look miserable, too, if her father had decided to genetically meld her with a lobster. Although since he would have died without the treatment, it was sort of a good thing. Aaron, on the other hand, looked dreamy in his blue jeans and his white shirt with the big red 'A' painted across the chest. Aaron always looked dreamy. He probably would've looked dreamy in Yelena's costume.
Well. Maybe that was going a little bit far.
According to the people from Marketing, there were four slots open on the team, and twenty kids just their age trying out for them. Velma wasn't so sure about their numbers. She didn't recognize any of the other people 'auditioning' from the compound, but a few of them looked familiar, like she might have seen them as extras on her favorite shows back before she spent all her time training and didn't get to watch television. The way they kept failing their challenges was even stranger. They'd be flying or fighting or phasing just fine, and then they'd lose their concentration just seconds before time ran out. The longer she watched, the more convinced she was that everything was fixed.
Yelena caught her eye and offered an anxious smile across the electrified field that represented their shot at the semi-finals. With two flying candidates and two candidates whose powers fell into the 'unique' classification, their last challenge was one of teamwork and communication. All they had to do was make it to the door, together, unshocked, and they'd be almost in.
"NEXT UP," boomed the announcer, his amplified words almost drowned out by the roar of the enthusiastic crowd, "WE HAVE OUR NEWEST POTENTIAL HEROINES -- VELVETEEN AND SPARKLE BRIGHT!" The massive video screens cut to their 'audition shots' as their brand-new superhero names were called, showing Velma directing a tea party where all the toys were active participants, and Yelena skipping rope with a rainbow. So cuddly-cute and perfectly predictable that it still made Velma want to gag. Although not as much as the thought of crossing that electric field.
But Yelena was counting on her. And Aaron was already on the other side with David. They were waiting. They'd be waiting until Velma got up the nerve to join them.
She hated the men and women from Marketing, with their whispers of positive image and toy lines. She hated The Super Patriots, Inc. She hated her parents. But she didn't hate the people who wanted to be her teammates, who just wanted her to stand up and join them. She could be a superheroine, if that was what they wanted from her. She could learn to be Velveteen, instead of Velma. Who knew? Maybe people would like Velveteen better. Maybe hiding behind a mask was exactly what she needed.
They'd tested her powers pretty thoroughly, but they could only test up to the limits of her participation, not up to the limits of what she could actually do. Placing two fingers in her mouth, Velma whistled shrilly. And the giant statues of the founders of The Super Patriots stood up, scooped her and Yelena into their hands, and carried them into the future.
There'd be time to regret it later.
Lots of time to regret it.
*
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" The announcer's voice boomed out across the arena in exactly the way that it was meant to, carrying undertones of barely-suppressed excitement, and the twinkling glee of a man who was about to give out the secrets of creation itself...or at least the names of the newest members of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. The arena, predictably enough, went nuts.
Behind the shimmering curtain of Interrogation's invisible wall, Velma squirmed, trying to get her leotard to stop crawling up her butt. It wasn't working terribly well. At least her 'official' costume was less offensive than her audition costume had been. She still had the unwanted leotard-and-tights combo, but her new leotard was dark brown, and her new tights were a tolerable shade of pink. And they'd given her ankle boots and a utility belt (even if they'd made her keep the tail). With that, the rabbit ears, and the domino mask, she really looked like the heroine they were pretending she was going to be.
"I think I'm gonna throw up," hissed Yelena. She looked distinctly green, although that could have just been her rainbow powers kicking in again. They had a tendency to change her skin tone when she got stressed, and being presented in front of thousands of screaming fans was definitely stressful. "Do you think they'd notice?"
"They'd notice," said David, morosely. David did almost everything morosely. Probably because his costume didn't require him to wear any pants, which had to be bad for his ego.
"YOU'VE WITNESSED THE BEST AND BRIGHTEST OF THE NEW GENERATION OF HEROES! THE SAVIORS OF TOMORROW! THE STARS OF THE FUTURE!" The announcer was really hitting his stride now, and the audience sounded like they were going insane.
Velma gave Yelena's hand another squeeze. "Don't worry. They're going to love you."
"They're going to love you, too," murmured a voice next to her ear. Velma turned to find herself looking straight into the eyes of Aaron Frank, also known as 'Action Dude.' She felt herself go red. He grinned.
She was still blushing when the invisible wall came down and the four of them were exposed to their public in costume for for the first time.
"SPARKLE BRIGHT! THE CLAW! VELVETEEN! ACTION DUDE! I GIVE YOU -- THE NEWEST MEMBERS OF THE JUNIOR SUPER PATRIOTS, WEST COAST DIVISION!"
The screaming of the crowd seemed almost loud enough to drown out the pounding of Velma's -- of Velveteen's -- heart. She squeezed Sparkle Bright's hand tightly in hers, and smiled out at the arena, and knew, then and there, that she was going to be a superhero forever.
*
Now:
Velma's room at the Good Time Gas-n-Go's no-tell motel was as dark as the thin mesh curtains could make it; they were drawn shut, but the neon lights of the truck stop still filtered through. No matter; the room's single occupant was out cold, too deeply sunk in sleep for anything short of an all-out supervillain attack to wake her. Even that might have just earned a thrown pillow and a muttered demand that the combatants keep it down already. She'd fallen asleep with the television on, blaring the night's third rerun of the most recent Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division results show. Various garishly-clad contestants flew, fought, and used psychic powers to navigate a series of improbable obstacles. At the end of the maze, the prize to end all prizes: membership in The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, and eventually -- if you were quick and clever and could keep yourself breathing long enough -- ascension to the ranks of The Super Patriots, West Coast Division, where the marketing dollars and the really cool supervillains were found. The blue ribbon.
It was fixed. It was all fixed, always, every year, because there weren't nearly as many superhero hopefuls as the media wanted people to think. Too many of the superhumans that manifested in any given year were flawed in some way, driven insane by their powers, killed by the radiation that made them, or simply unable to survive in an atmosphere that they were no longer suited for. So they recycled the same twenty or thirty extras over and over again, hiding their faces behind brightly-colored masks, and used them to promote the illusion that only the best of the best of the best would ever have the right to call themselves Super Patriots.
It was all a lie, but once upon a time, that hadn't mattered, because once upon a time, that syrupy theme music had been the song of hope, and those horrible costumes had been the flags of freedom. Of a world where it didn't matter if you weren't normal, because normal didn't stop the alien invasions or crush the giant robots. Superhumans were licensed because people were afraid of them, just as much as people idolized them. But once, that didn't matter. Once, it was all going to be okay.
Velma slept with teddy bears and action figures guarding her bedside, like a princess of toyland, and the song of The Super Patriots eased her deeper and deeper down into her dreams.
*
Might and flight
Defend your rights
Protectors of the skies,
While tele-s port
And tele-s path
Stop evil where it lies.
American as apple pie,
Enhanced by liberty,
Look up and wave as they pass by,
Those heroes, flying free...
*
The identity of the first superhumans has been a subject of hot debate for decades, and is unlikely to be resolved any time soon. After all, so many superhumans manifest with powers that are easy to overlook, and it could have been years before any showed up with a combination of abilities that would get them noticed. Before superhuman screening became commonplace, how would Garden Show, with her uncanny ability to raise any flower to perfect health -- providing she was given access to gardening supplies, and had the standard growing period -- have ever been spotted? Or Kennel Club, the champion dog trainer who was later found to be a command telepath whose powers only worked on the dogs he worked with? No, there's no way of knowing how long the superhumans were among us before their cover was blown. But once that cover was removed, there was no going back.
Every schoolchild knows the identities of the first three. Majesty, first superhuman to manifest both flight and super-strength (oddly, one of the more common combinations), raised in a small town in upstate Vermont. His abilities were later linked to irradiated maple syrup. Several more cases of superhuman manifestation would occur during the years following his first appearance, as that irradiated syrup found its way from IHOPs around the country into the transgenically susceptible bellies of children and pregnant women. Jolly Roger, the first of the so-called 'fantasy heroes,' who drew his power from the world's obsession with pirates through a psychic link that scientists have remained unable to explain even to this day. And Supermodel, subject of a million erotic fantasies and source of two million severe eating disorders, whose mutation made her the most beautiful, irresistible thing in any given room, yet inevitably drained the beauty from everything around her. They were the first Super Patriots, serving their country through the use of powers that no one came anywhere close to understanding. They were amazing. They were awesome. They were everything the common man wasn't.
They were too good to be true. And in the end, they weren't true at all.
The reality behind what happened to the first three Super Patriots was quickly and quietly suppressed by both The Super Patriots, Inc., and the United States government. It wasn't Supermodel's fault, they argued; her powers were uncontrollable on a quantum level, and she had no way of knowing that they were quietly and constantly eroding the goodness of her teammates. Nor was it the fault of Majesty or Jolly Roger, driven to evil by Supermodel's constant presence. Majesty, Supermodel, and six of the company's eleven trainee heroes died in an epic battle that has been attributed to everything from alien mind control to evil duplicates from a parallel dimension. By the time the spin doctors were done, the truth didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was keeping it hidden.
Every schoolchild also knows the identity of those five trainee heroes, suddenly elevated to the ranks of Super Patriots in the wake of their tragic loss. Imagineer. Trick and Treat, whose daughters, the lovely Candy girls, have only recently followed in their parents' footsteps. Deadbolt. Second Chance. They rebuilt a company. They founded an empire. They sleep just fine at night, thank you very much.
All communities have their secrets, and their mysteries. Where did the superhumans come from? Who was the first?
What happened to Jolly Roger?
*
Then:
Velma wasn't entirely sure what she'd expected to happen after she and the others made the team. They'd never really been given details on what membership in The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division, would mean, although she had the vague idea that it would include ice cream, and possibly a trip to the circus.
The most immediate change was in their living quarters. They'd barely left the stage before the woman from Marketing was whisking them off to a new part of the compound, chattering away a mile a minute as she led them through the increasingly twisted hallways. "--pay upgrade means, of course, that you can absolutely afford all of this," she was saying, with high-pitched glee. "Only the best for our newest heroes! And of course, the pay increase is effective immediately, although contract negotiations won't be able to start until next week, you understand, of course, we need to get the legal team back from the Inverse Dimension, and notify your parents that you've been elected to the team. All release forms were signed and filed before you were allowed to enter the trials, of course--"
Velma had been holding tight to Yelena's hand ever since they left the stage. Leaning towards the other girl, she murmured out of the corner of her mouth, "I think she gets a quarter every time she can manage to say 'of course.'"
Yelena smothered a giggle.
Coming to a sudden halt, the woman from Marketing turned to shoot a venomous glare back towards the quartet. "I hope you realize what an honor and a privilege it is to serve with The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division," she said, sharply. "There are a great many children who would give anything to be standing where you are right now. Anything. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Aaron, in his best 'dealing with the crazy grown-ups' tone. He was very good at that tone, and at the things that came with it -- the getting along, the getting on with other people. Velma was too cranky ('a lot of repressed anger,' said the company psychiatrist), Yelena was too timid ('serious self-image issues'), and David was too morose ('we're not even sure where to start'). Aaron, on the other hand, was the all-American boy on whose prepubescent shoulders the Marketing Department was already planning to build a fresh new empire. "We're just excited because of the trials, ma'am, that's all."
From anyone else, it would have sounded smarmy. From Aaron, it just sounded sincere. Predictably, the woman from Marketing's irritated expression melted into the sappily understanding look that adults tended to have around him. "Well, all right," she said. "I guess I can't quash youthful high spirits. Anyway, we're here." She waved a hand dramatically, indicating the two nearest doorways. "Your new living quarters."
Of the many lessons that Velma had learned since accidentally reanimating the museum's Natural History wing, the one that currently seemed to matter most was that anything people called 'living quarters' was not actually the same as 'bedroom.' At least these rooms seemed less generic from the outside; their names had been stenciled on the door, hers in warm chocolate brown, Yelena's in glittery rainbow. Or rather, their hero names had been stenciled on the door. Here, inside the compound, there was no place for Velma and Yelena and Aaron and Dave. Just the heroes that they were intended to become.
"They look...nice," said Yelena, timidly. Yelena was always timid around adults. Velma was starting to suspect that she wasn't the only one who'd had a less-than-happy home life.
"Oh, they're better than nice," enthused the woman from Marketing. "They're yours." Before any of the four could decide how they were supposed to react to that, she stepped forward, opening one door with each hand and stepping back, fingers spread in a dramatic flourish. "Welcome home."
On the other side of the beautifully-painted doors were...tiny, white, almost featureless rooms that wouldn't have been out of place in a hospital. They were, in short, identical to the bedrooms in the bunkers, with the exception that Velma and the others had taken the time to personalize their rooms in the bunkers. These rooms were devoid of any such familiar little touches. They weren't anything like a home.
Seeing Yelena's eyes starting to fill with tears, Velma gave her hand a fierce squeeze and asked, "Do we get paint or construction paper or anything that we can use for decorating? They're sort of, well. Empty right now."
"That's your first test, you darling little rascal," said the woman from Marketing, an almost malicious glimmer coming into her eyes. "You can decorate your rooms just as soon as you find a way to do it with your powers. Now, I realize none of you have material capabilities, so that just means you'll need to figure out ways to become profitable all the faster. Then you're welcome to use your share the merchandising and appearance fees to do whatever you like." Still smiling, she took a step backwards. "Now, you're all expected for a press conference first thing tomorrow morning. Why don't you go ahead and get some rest? We want our newest heroes to be at their very best when they meet their public!" Turning quickly, she went striding down the hall, leaving the four to stare after her in dismay.
"I thought we fought supervillains," said David, sourly. "Nobody said anything to me about working for them."
That was too much for Yelena. She began crying silently, her tears leaving glittery rainbow trails down the sides of her face. Sighing, Velma gathered her into a hug. "It's okay. You'll see. It'll be okay. We're going to make so much money we can build palaces if we want to."
Yelena sniffled, eying her suspiciously. "Promise?"
"Yeah." Velma gave a firm nod, matching it with an even firmer squeeze. "Promise."
*
Velma Martinez, age fifteen: almost more comfortable in costume than she was out of it, equally likely to answer to 'Velveteen' and 'Velma'...although she strongly suspected that was only because both her names began with 'V.' Action Dude still answered to 'Aaron,' after all, while David and Yelena had practically abandoned the names that they were born with. Those kids were gone, entirely unmourned, because two much brighter stars had risen in their place: The Claw and Sparkle Bright, two of the core members of the current lineup of The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. Velma and Yelena had been rooming together for three years, and Yelena didn't cry in her sleep anymore. Not as much, anyway. Whatever she was trying to put behind her, it had been bad, bad enough that she'd embraced the company conditioning with open arms. Unlike her roommate and best friend, who continued to view the whole situation with grudgingly accepting suspicion.
Velma Martinez, age fifteen, better known to the world as Velveteen, mistress of the toybox, holder of no fewer than six global spokes-kid contracts with various toy shops and manufacturers. Velveteen was the one who'd been invited to participate in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, waving from her place on Santa's sleigh. Velveteen was the one whose action figures were distributed as an intentional rarity, due to their 'awesome power' over the rest of the set (more crap from Marketing, but oh, how the public loved their crap...), leading to an incredible price tag on the collector's market. Velveteen was the one that they wanted. Not Velma.
Velma Martinez, age fifteen, wearing an itchy, formal version of her usual costume -- itchy, formal, and made entirely out of black and gray -- and wishing like hell that there was a way for her to actually step aside and let Velveteen run the show. She'd never been to a funeral before, had always managed to be out of the dimension or in the infirmary when they happened. She didn't know how you were supposed to act or what you were supposed to say. The media was bound to be in attendance. The media was always in attendance for something like this.
She wasn't even sure whether or not she was allowed to cry.
Velma Martinez, age fifteen: still standing frozen in front of her mirror, wondering if she needed to adjust her ears, wondering whether it was too late to claim that she was sick, or frozen in time, or stranded in the Inverse Dimension, when the door to the bedroom opened and Action Dude stuck his head inside, looking like his own emo twin in his black and gray costume.
"Vel? They said to come and get you."
Velma didn't answer.
Sighing, Action Dude came into the room and walked up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. "There has to be a funeral, Vel," he said, gravely. "All the precogs looked forward, and she's not slated for a return in the current timeline. Unless there's another cosmic event, Diva's gone for good."
"I never liked her," Velma mumbled, glancing down at her hands. Anything was better than meeting Aaron's eyes in the mirror.
"What?"
"Diva. I never liked her. They said she was what, Supermodel's little sister? Only smarter, and prettier, and in control of her powers? Supermodel was twenty years ago, and her parents were dead. The story didn't even make sense, but everybody believed it. And she was just such a stuck-up, nasty, snotty little--"
"Clone."
Velma blinked, looking up. "Really?"
"Uh-huh." Aaron nodded solemnly. "They made her from a mix of Supermodel and Majesty's DNA. They were going to 'reveal' her parentage when she moved up to The Super Patriots. Only she went and got herself killed first, and now they have to bury her under that stupid cover story. She's not even old enough for them to blow her secret identity and bury her under her real name."
"What was her real name?" Velma asked, curious despite herself.
"Heidi."
"Seriously?"
"The scientist who made her liked the classics."
"How do you--"
"The scientist who made her was David's father." Aaron offered her a tiny smile. "C'mon, Vel. Just come to the funeral? For me?"
Velma took a deep breath; held it; let it slowly out again. "For you," she said, only a little sullenly.
"There's the most awesome heroine I know," he said, smile broadening to become that ear to ear grin that made her heart turn over in her chest, and he led her out of the room, and she didn't stop him.
*
Velveteen and Action Dude kissed for the first time the night of Diva's funeral, after the services were done, while The Super Patriots -- all five adult branches and all five Junior Divisions -- posed for pictures and offered solemn sound-bytes about what a tragedy it all was. It was raining. It always rained for superhero funerals. Dewpoint and Flash Flood were on duty for this one, standing at their stations with heads bowed in what looked like grief but was really deep concentration. Appearances must be maintained, after all, and appearances said that it always rained at superhero funerals.
Velveteen had managed to stay still through the endless eulogies and stories of Diva's heroism, but fled before the media could catch up with her, taking shelter in the shade of Majesty's crypt. Her ears were soaked and sagging, making her look almost like a lop. She was trying to decide how much she'd get docked for breaking costume if she took them off when a hand tapped her shoulder, and she turned, and Action Dude was kissing her, and she really didn't care about the ears anymore.
He'd had about as much practice as she had, which was to say 'really none to speak of.' He made up for it with enthusiasm, and with earnestness. Velveteen felt her knees going weak, and wrapped one arm around his shoulders to keep herself steady. That just seemed to encourage him, and he kept on kissing her, kept on kissing her until they were both dizzy and gasping for breath.
When he finally let go, his cheeks were red enough to make him look like he'd been the target of one of Sparkle Bright's attacks. "So, uh," he said.
"Yeah," said Velveteen, breathlessly. "Uh."
"I hope you don't--"
"Oh, no. Not at all. How long have you--"
"Since you used that stuffed octopus to make Paperclip shut up and sit down. So you're--"
"Oh, absolutely. For even longer, I think."
A smile crossed his face. "Then it's okay if I do it again?" he asked.
Velveteen very nearly threw herself into his arms.
The pair was so involved in their kissing that they didn't notice the paparazzi flashbulbs going off, photographers tipped off to the chance to capture some 'unrehearsed young romance' by the folks from Marketing. Photographers and unwanted candid pictures were just a part of their daily existence now; they'd learned to tune them out. They just continued to explore the possibilities in front of them -- possibilities that were maybe a little more innocent than most of their peers, given how sheltered they were from the popular culture of their time, but possibilities all the same. What their peers hadn't taught them, their hormones were more than willing to supply.
They didn't notice the photographers at all. And they didn't notice the small figure who sparkled with a corona of rainbow glitter, standing in the shadows of the nearby trees. Tiny, furious rainbows danced in her eyes, lighting them from side to side in a constant shimmer of color.
If anyone had asked Velveteen, or Velma, she would have said that was the beginning of the end.
But no one ever did.
*
Banging on the motel door. Banging that quickly turned into hammering, and was just as quickly joined by the sound of a man shouting, "Hey, lady! Lady, are you dead in there?"
Groaning, Velma forced her eyes to open and stared up through the gloom at the ceiling. The hammering continued, almost drowning out the daytime talk show discussing the merits and flaws of the newest recruits to The Junior Super Patriots, West Coast Division. Velma waved her hand, and one of the action figures scattered around her bag jumped up to shut off the television while she struggled to get herself into an upright position.
"What?!" she demanded. Pants. Where were her pants? She'd been wearing pants when she arrived, she was almost certain of it...
"I asked if you were all right, lady. You slept through your wake-up call, twice, and then you didn't check out of the room." The shouting had died down. That was a blessing. There was a note of concern in the man's voice now that was almost as bad. "I won't charge you for today if you can get out in the next fifteen minutes, but you sure gave my desk clerk a scare."
"I'm fine! I was just--" Dreaming of every mistake I ever made in my entire life, thank you so much for waking me up before the really big ones, "--a lot more tired than I thought I was." There were her pants, halfway under the edge of the bed. Velma grabbed them and yanked them on without bothering to do up the button before rushing to open the door.
The motel manager was standing right there, a worried expression on his round, florid face. "You're sure you're okay?" he asked.
Velma smiled. It was an entirely insincere smile, but that didn't matter, because she'd been trained by the best. Like it or not, she was a product of The Super Patriots Marketing Machine, and they always smile like they mean it. "I'm fine," she said. "Thank you so much for checking on me. I'll just be a minute getting my stuff together, and then I'll come and settle my bill."
"You gotta take care of yourself on the road, lady," he said, worry starting to ease out of his face. Thank God. She'd paid enough to learn that smile; it'd be a shame if it stopped working. "Nobody else is going to do it for you."
The memory of Aaron's eyes behind his black funeral mask still fresh and hot in her mind, Velma nodded. "Oh, I know," she said. "Believe me, I know."
It was a new day. And the past was very, very far away.
*
It's all right,
They've won the fight,
And freedom was the prize.
This gift they give:
You're free to live,
And justice never dies.
American as apple pie,
Enhanced by liberty.
It's time once more to say good-bye,
Those heroes, flying free...
Those heroes, flying free..
November 28 2012, 07:04:55 UTC 4 years ago
December 12 2012, 16:16:57 UTC 4 years ago